When the Marquess Met His Match (7 page)

Rosalie immediately pulled down the window. “The third waltz, my lord?” It was meant to be a clarification, but Nicholas knew it was a hopeful reminder.

“The third, Miss Harlow.” This assurance earned him a radiant smile and as he studied her happy countenance through the glass, he decided that Rosalie Harlow was a very pretty girl indeed. She was also charming, amiable, and obviously wealthy. And she seemed to like him, which was a pleasant contrast to the virago upstairs.

“Walk on,” he told the driver, and he tipped his hat to Miss Harlow as the carriage pulled away from the curb. He waited on the sidewalk until the vehicle had turned the corner before he turned in the opposite direction. He took a glance at the window as he started toward the hansom cab waiting for him, but Lady Featherstone was no longer there.

In declaring war to her this afternoon, Nicholas hadn’t dreamed his first opportunity to win a battle would come so quickly. As she had introduced him to her young friend, he’d sensed a vulnerability in her that he hadn’t seen before, a definite chink in her cool, polished armor that told him Rosalie Harlow wasn’t just an acquaintance. She was a friend.

That thought brought with it a vague sense of disquiet, but he forced himself to shove that aside. He didn’t have time for a consideration of Lady Featherstone’s feelings, and truth be told, he wasn’t particularly inclined to do so after what she’d done to him. It wasn’t as if she’d spare him any such regard had their situations been reversed. Besides, he couldn’t eliminate every woman who might be a friend of hers. No, he would have his dance with Miss Harlow, and if she proved amenable to him and he to her, there was no reason he could see not to pursue her.

A cough brought him out of his reverie, and Nicholas realized he was standing on the sidewalk with a hansom in front of him, and a driver up on the box who was no doubt charging him a fortune for each additional moment he lingered. Before he could give the driver a direction, however, he had to decide where to go from here.

His most pressing need was money, and thanks to Belinda Featherstone, his options for obtaining it had dwindled considerably, so he really had only one choice left, and that was Denys. He ordered the driver to take him to his friend’s South Audley Street residence.

Denys, unlike most of their other friends, had decided to become respectable. He wasn’t wealthy by any means, but like most bachelors of the aristocracy, he had a quarterly allowance, and he no longer strove to spend every cent before the next quarter’s allotment came in. In addition, he had full use of his father’s carriages, staff, and London house. Having mended his spendthrift ways, he’d surely be able to spare a few quid for an old friend.

Nicholas could only hope Denys had gotten over that silly business with the cancan dancer. After all, it had happened three years ago, and they’d been friends far longer than three years. Denys surely wouldn’t hold a grudge.

“
Y
OU SON OF
a bitch.” The fist hit him in the face before he had time to duck, sending Nicholas staggering back a step.

Damn, he thought, touching his cheek with a grimace. He’d forgotten Denys had such a smashing right hook. “Still a bit peeved about Lola, I take it?”

“Peeved? Not at all.” Denys’s dark eyes narrowed on Nicholas, warning him that another blow was coming.

He ducked in time. “Then why did you hit me?”

“Because you’re here, and you’re breathing.” He swung again, but Nicholas had already jumped backward, out of reach. “Stand still, you bastard.”

“I rather hoped Lola would be water under the bridge by now.” Nicholas glanced around the other man’s drawing room, looking for a barrier to put between them. Deciding the stout mahogany pedestal table nearby would do, he moved to stand on the other side of it. “I hoped we could let bygones be bygones.”

“Did you?” Denys began circling the table, forcing Nicholas to do the same. “You were wrong.”

“I can see that.” He edged away as Denys came closer, but when the two men’s positions were reversed, he gave it up.

“This is absurd,” he said, and as the other man came the rest of the way around the table, Nicholas turned to face him, palms up in a gesture of truce. “Before you beat me to a pulp, can we take a moment to talk?”

“Talk about what? About you needing a loan?”

Nicholas sighed, lowering his arms. “I see you’ve read today’s issue of
Talk of the Town
.”

“I’ve no need to read it, not when everyone else already has, causing you to be the main subject being discussed at White’s today. So Landsdowne’s cut you off, has he? And now you need a loan, so you’ve come to me. Why me?”

He told the truth. “You’re the only friend I’ve got who has any money.”

Denys shook his head with a laugh. “God, you have gall, Nick, I’ll say that for you.”

“Well, yes,” Nicholas agreed, “but in my defense, I did save your life once.”

“Oh, please.” Denys derided that notion with a snort. “Pongo would not have shot me.”

“Only because I jumped between the pair of you and took the bullet on your behalf.”

“Which was a stupid thing to do. When you came between us, it startled him, and he fired. He wouldn’t have done so otherwise. He was just drunk and stirred up.”

“Over a woman,” Nicholas was quick to point out. “Pot,” he added with a bow, “my name is Kettle.”

Denys scowled at this reminder of his own past sins.

“That was different,” he muttered. “Pongo didn’t care tuppence for that barmaid. I loved Lola.”

It was Nicholas’s turn to offer a disbelieving snort. “You were in love every week.”

“That’s not true.”

“No? Shall I take you back three years? Before Lola, there was Julianne Bardot, the opera singer. Before her, you had a passion for the Contessa Roselli. Before her, I believe it was that Scandinavian courtesan—what was her name? Anika? Angelica?”

“All right, all right, you’ve made your point.” Denys squared his shoulders and straightened his tie with a little cough. “But I’ve changed since then. You haven’t.”

“That’s absurd. Everyone changes.”

“Not you, Nick. You are just the same at thirty as you were at twenty. Do you read what’s said about you in the scandal sheets? I do, and your name crops up at least once a week. I vow, the London gossip columnists spend half their time across the Channel, following you and Jack around Paris, detailing your exploits. Hedonists, the pair of you. Why any woman should want you, I don’t know, but odds at White’s are that you’ll be engaged by the end of the season, in spite of
Talk of the Town
.”

“Really?” Nicholas’s spirits brightened a bit. “Did you place a wager on me?”

“Only a small one. I picked Lady Idina Forsyte.”

“The Earl of Forsyte’s daughter?” He made a grimace. “Doesn’t she have adenoids?”

“At least I didn’t say Lady Harriet Dalrymple. She was one of the choices. Long odds on her, though. Most chaps think you’ll do a bit better than that.”

He gave the other man a wry look. “I wonder if Landsdowne placed the bet. Lady Harriet is his choice, which means that even if she were Helen of Troy, Sappho, and Aphrodite all rolled into one, I wouldn’t have her.”

“You really do hate Landsdowne.”

“Do you blame me?”

“I suppose not. Still, Lady Harriet is horrid, and it would be no more than you deserved to end up with her.”

“How vengeful you are. But, no, I can assure you that my bride will not be Lady Harriet. I’d never give Landsdowne the satisfaction. Besides, I’ve other, more delectable fish to fry.”

“You’ve already set your sights on someone?”

“Perhaps. What do you know of Miss Rosalie Harlow?”

Denys whistled. “That’s going for high game. She’s one of the season’s acknowledged beauties, and her father is one of the richest men in America. Of course, you’ll have to make it past the dragon at the gates.”

“Lady Featherstone being the dragon in question? She’s already breathed her fire on me. I came away quite singed by the encounter.”

“Good on her.” Denys grinned. “That pleases me more than words can say.”

Nicholas grinned back. “Pleased enough to give me a loan?”

The other man stared at him in amazement, shaking his head, laughing as if in disbelief. “How do you manage it?”

“Manage what?”

“To keep us friends.”

He straightened the camellia in his buttonhole and smoothed his lapel. “My charm? My wit? My—”

“Enough,” Denys cut him off. “Any more of that, and I’ll be sick. How much do you need?”

“Can you spare a thousand?”

“All right, but I’m charging you interest. Four percent.”

“Per annum?”

“Per month.”

“That’s extortion.”

“No,” Denys corrected, folding his arms. “It’s justice.”

He was in no position to negotiate. “Four percent it is. Are lodgings at your house included in this offer?”

“What? Allow you to live in my house for the foreseeable future?”

“This isn’t your house. It’s Earl Conyers’s house. You, Viscount Somerton, live here due to your father’s goodwill.”

“And my mother’s. She won’t like it, you know, having you here with all the scandal attached to your name.”

“Couldn’t she see her way clear for the man who saved her son’s life?” Ignoring Denys’s sound of exasperation, he added, “And I won’t be staying forever, just until the end of the season.”

“Only if you’ve found a wife by then. If you don’t, we shall be stuck with you for God knows how long.”

“You said yourself the odds are in my favor. But if I am to find a wife, I simply must have a respectable address. And, anyway, you have a bet riding on this, so it’s in your best interests to assist me as much as possible.”

“Lease a house. Let a flat. Find a hotel.”

“This is London, Denys, and it’s the season. A house, or even a flat, is rare as hen’s teeth this time of year, meaning that even if I could find one, I couldn’t afford the rent. And hotels are so inconvenient if one wants to entertain.”

“Is there anything else you need? Seats in my father’s box at Covent Garden? An evening of cards with the Prince of Wales? Use of the carriages?”

“All those would be splendid,” he said, jumping on the offer and ignoring the sarcasm. “And if you could persuade Montcrieffe to invite me to his ball tonight, I believe I’ll be on my way to a smashing season.”

“Lovely. I think I shall go to the country.”

“Nonsense.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “You’ll enjoy yourself enormously with me for company. You always do. C’mon.”

“Are we going somewhere?” Denys asked, as Nicholas began leading him toward the door.

“White’s.”

“But I’ve just come from there.”

“I want to see who else has been suggested as a bride for me besides Lady Harriet and Lady Idina. Feel free, by the way, to offer the names of any wealthy heiresses you can think of who might be open to the idea of marrying a broke, down-on-his-luck marquess.”

“I thought you’d already set your sights on Miss Harlow?”

“There’s no guarantee we’ll suit, so I need other alternatives in case Miss Harlow doesn’t pan out. I say, that’s an idea.” He stopped, bringing the other man to a halt as well.

“What’s an idea?” Denys asked.

He turned toward his friend. “Is your sister still as pretty as I remember?”

Denys scowled. “Don’t push your luck.”

Chapter 5

N
icholas had the good fortune to encounter Lord Montcrieffe at White’s, and with Denys’s assistance, he was able to finagle an invitation to attend the ball that evening with his friend. While dressing for the event, however, a note from Lady Montcrieffe was brought to him by one of Lord Conyers’s footmen, a note that told him he wasn’t the only one doing a bit of finagling. “Lady Featherstone has been busy, Chalmers,” he told his valet as he scanned the letter. “She has brought out the heavy guns against me.”

“Indeed?” The servant’s tone was polite but uninterested. Chalmers was a tall, cadaverous fellow who looked more like an undertaker than a valet and took the proper knotting of a man’s tie far too seriously. It made him an excellent valet but a poor conversationalist. “If you could lift your chin a bit?”

Nicholas complied, lifting the letter as well so that he could keep reading while Conyers formed his white silk tie into a proper bow. “I’m told other members of the ball committee would be appalled if they knew Montcrieffe had issued a verbal invitation, especially at this late date. She begs that I not attend in order to spare her husband censure from the others on the committee. The implication, of course, is that if I refuse the lady’s request, I am unchivalrous.”

“It seems quite a conundrum, my lord.” Chalmers stepped back to consider his handiwork. He tweaked the bow a bit, then brushed a speck of lint from Nicholas’s black tailcoat and dressed his buttonhole with a pristine white gardenia. Satisfied at last, he reached for the ice poultice reposing in a silver bowl on the dressing table, an action Nicholas was impelled to protest.

“Good God, not again.” He turned his face to the side as his valet attempted to apply the ice to his left cheek where Denys had hit him. “My face is already numb from your efforts. Surely the swelling has abated by now.”

“Only for the moment. Ice must be applied for several minutes every half hour, or the swelling will return. You wouldn’t wish to appear in public with a goose egg on your face. What would the ladies think?”

Desperate, he turned his face the other way to evade his valet’s ministrations. “A swollen face and a black eye might be considered romantic to the ladies.”

“The black eye won’t appear until at least tomorrow. But though there’s nothing I can do about that, it is my duty as your valet to ensure you not attend an important social event with a swollen face.” He pressed the poultice gently but firmly to Nicholas’s eye, seeming in no doubt that his master would attend the ball despite Lady Montcrieffe’s request.

Chalmers knew him well. The letter was Lady Featherstone’s doing, and Nicholas had no intention of playing along. He’d have his waltz with Miss Harlow despite that woman’s machinations.

Two hours later, however, he wondered if his decision to forgo Lady Montcrieffe’s goodwill had been a futile sacrifice. As all charity balls were known to be, the ballroom at Montcrieffe House was packed with people. Rosalie Harlow, however, did not seem to be among the crowd. He circled the ballroom twice, but even with only a few minutes remaining before the third waltz, he still had not found her.

He started round again, but before he could resume his search for his quarry, he came face-to-face with another woman, the one he’d thought only yesterday would be the answer to all his problems. Unfortunately, Belinda Featherstone was proving to be his nemesis.

Despite that, his gaze slid downward, and he noted with both chagrin and masculine appreciation how her ball gown of ice blue satin clung to every luscious curve of her body. The deep, square neckline emphasized the exquisite shape of her breasts. The fashionably tight skirt scattered with seed pearls sheathed her shapely hips and trailed behind her in a train edged with ivory lace. Pearls peeked from amid the tendrils of dark hair piled atop her head and wrapped her long, slender neck, pearls so well matched they couldn’t possibly be real. Nicholas stared at the generous expanse of creamy skin that warmed those pearls, and his throat went dry. Only half a dozen feet away from him, and yet, she seemed as distant and untouchable as the glittering, starlit sky.

Despite that impression—or perhaps because of it—he could feel arousal flaring up within him as he looked at her. It quickened his pulses and thrummed through his veins and spread through his body before he could even think to check it.

Damnation. Of all the things he ought to be feeling at the sight of her, lust shouldn’t have been one of them. He tried to gather his wits, not an easy thing to do given the sight before him, and as the seconds ticked by, he realized that while he was standing here gaping at her like a randy adolescent, she was staring back at him with all her usual polished composure.

Nicholas took a deep breath, working to tamp down desire and don the mask of indolence he’d always found so effective at hiding inconvenient vulnerabilities. It was a mask he’d had plenty of practice putting on throughout his life, but at this moment, he was finding it a rough go. He felt naked, and in a way that was not the least bit pleasant. What was it about this woman that always seemed to throw him off his trolley?

“Lady Featherstone.” He gave her his deepest bow, and by the time he straightened, he was smiling, but he felt as if even the widest smile and most carefree air he could put on wouldn’t convince the perceptive woman before him.

She didn’t move to respond in kind, and he tensed, wondering if she intended to give him the cut direct. With her influence in society, that would be a serious blow to his chances, but there was nothing he could do about it, so he tried to adopt a nonchalant air as he waited to be snubbed.

She was tempted, he could tell, but after a moment, she gave a quick nod of acknowledgment and a slight curtsy. It was probably the briefest, most inconsequential acknowledgment ever given by a lady to a peer, but she’d given it.

Astonished, he turned to watch her as she stepped around him and walked on, still not quite able to believe it. They were at war, weren’t they? Granted, cutting him would cause gossip, but this was the perfect opportunity for her to show he was unworthy of notice by respectable society and demonstrate to any young ladies who might be watching—or at least to their mamas—that he was not a man to be trusted. So why hadn’t she taken that opportunity?

As he watched her move toward the doorway, Nicholas was forced to set aside his speculations about Lady Featherstone, for the woman he’d actually come here to see had just arrived in the ballroom.

Rosalie was standing inside the doorway with her mother, greeting Lord and Lady Montcrieffe and various other members of the charity-ball committee. Dressed in blush pink silk, her blond hair a mass of soft curls and ringlets, she made quite a pretty picture—that is, he amended as his gaze strayed to the shapely backside of Lady Featherstone, if a man kept his eyes on her and not on a certain raven-haired she-dragon.

He returned his attention determinedly to the girl, but he waited until the musicians gave the cue that the third waltz was beginning before he moved toward her. Rosalie greeted his approach with a radiant smile, and he gave her an answering wink as he passed her to speak with the viscount. “Montcrieffe,” he greeted for the second time this evening. “Thank you again for your kind invitation.”

“Not at all,” the viscount assured, though he cast an uneasy glance at his wife, just as he had upon Nicholas’s arrival. For her part, the viscountess gave him the same frosty nod she’d greeted him with earlier, and when he glanced at the ladies beside her, she gestured to them with obvious reluctance. “Lord Trubridge, I believe you are already acquainted with my friends Lady Featherstone, Mrs. Harlow, and Miss Harlow?”

“I am. In fact, I believe Miss Harlow has promised me the next dance.”

Rosalie’s smile widened even more. “So I have, my lord.”

“Then may I claim it?” He glanced at her mother. “With your permission, of course, madam?”

It was clear that Lady Montcrieffe was not the only one who had been warned about him. Mrs. Harlow’s displeased toss of the head was a far cry from her friendliness earlier in the day, but she made no protest as he offered his arm to her daughter and led her to the floor.

“I was sure Mama wouldn’t let me dance with you,” Rosalie told him as the waltz began.

He pretended obtuseness. “Why ever not?”

“She’d been warned about you by Auntie Belinda.”

“Auntie Belinda?” he echoed, surprised by the address. “I did not realize Lady Featherstone was your aunt.”

“Oh, she isn’t a blood relative. But she’s very close to our family. I’ve known her since I was a little girl, and although I call her Auntie, she’s more like an older sister, really.”

“And did she give you the same warnings about me that she gave your mother?”

Rosalie rolled her eyes. “Heavens, yes, and before I’d even met you. I was there when you first called on her yesterday, and she sent me home at once. She didn’t want to introduce us.”

“So that explains why she had me cooling my heels in the library. She wanted to keep us apart.”

“Yes. She told me you were an odious man.” Rosalie laughed. “And that you were fat. And that you had gout from drinking and bad breath from smoking cigars.”

If Belinda Featherstone was so desperate as to tell easily provable lies about him before she’d even known his purpose, she must be absolutely frantic now. He found the notion reassuring in the wake of his own tendency to let his wits go to pieces when she was anywhere near him.

“I do not smoke, Miss Harlow,” he said, “and though I do drink, it is seldom to excess, for I’ve found it’s not worth the suffering on the day after. So on those points, at least, your Auntie Belinda is quite wrong. As to the rest, well, you shall have to judge me for yourself.”

The laughter left her face. She gazed up at him, her brown eyes shining. “I think you’re splendid.”

She hadn’t meant to say that, he knew, for she blushed, biting her lip and lowering her gaze to his cravat. But though she seemed to think her comment gauche and unsophisticated, Nicholas couldn’t see it in that light. He was as happy as the next man to receive such unqualified praise, especially in light of the battering he’d been receiving of late from a certain other female.

“What a beautiful compliment. Thank you.” He pulled her a fraction closer. “And I think you are very pretty.”

She lifted her chin, rewarding him with another smile, and yet in that moment, Nicholas was swamped by sudden doubts. This girl was so terribly young. Naive, too—far more naive than her typical British counterpart. It was also plain she’d developed an unabashed hero worship for him, and he wondered if he should disengage, now, before her heart was in play. He didn’t want to hurt her, and if he kept on, he very well might. A girl like this was bound to have expectations about him, unrealistic expectations he didn’t know if he could ever fulfill. Even if they wed, could he make her happy?

Nicholas had no intention of falling in love again, but a girl like this might very well fall in love with him. In such circumstances, if he married her, it was inevitable that her romantic illusions about him and about love would eventually be shattered. How ironic that the qualities that would make winning her an easier task—her youth and her artless innocence—were now the very qualities that made him hesitate. When he looked into Rosalie’s big brown eyes, he received the distinct impression of a sweet little cocker spaniel gazing at its master, and he felt a twinge of something else, something that only made his doubts grow stronger.

It took him a moment to identify the feeling, and he realized in aggravation that it was
guilt
. When he thought about persuading this girl to marry him, he felt as if he was taking candy from a baby. As if he was shooting fish in a barrel. As if, somehow, he wasn’t playing fair.

Irritated with himself for this inconvenient sense of fair play, he tore his gaze away from Rosalie’s, but even without looking at her, he could still feel her adoring gaze on him. It made him deuced uncomfortable because he knew it was an adoration he hadn’t yet earned. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t him she adored, but the idea of him.

That realization had barely passed through his mind before he once again caught sight of Belinda standing at the edge of the dance floor, and resentment overcame this sudden attack of conscience. It was due to her precipitate actions that his choice of candidates was so limited, and it was that thought that enabled Nicholas to return his attention to the pretty girl in his arms. He smiled into Rosalie’s adoring eyes, shrugged off guilt, and reminded himself that all was fair in love and war.

B
ELINDA DIDN’T KNOW
it was possible for a nine-minute waltz to seem like nine hours. Watching the girl fall right into his grasp like a ripe plum was infuriating, but even worse, she felt as if she were watching history repeat itself, and that was more painful than she would have thought possible.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Belinda jerked her gaze away from Trubridge and Rosalie to find Lady Montcrieffe beside her. “Oh, Nancy,” she said with a sigh, “you don’t want to know what I’m thinking right now.”